I was on a hill, <br />reading <br />from a book containing <br />a poem by Allen Ginsberg, <br />about sitting on a hill <br />with Jack Kerouac, <br />and how they were looking <br />at a metallic sunflower <br />powdered with the dust of <br />industry, <br />and I wondered whether <br />they too <br />had seen things <br />in dusty trees that <br />you people <br />wouldn't believe <br />or <br />wood... <br />not leaf alone. <br /> <br />As I leafed through <br />a few more pages, <br />more images blossomed, <br />and I wondered whether <br />poetry, <br />as a rule of fingers <br />and thought, <br />blooms and grows <br />forever.<br /><br />Jeffrey Philip Clegg<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wood-or-wouldn-t/
